For some, it’s dreaded, and some cannot wait. The big day is approaching us quicker and quicker. I spent Tuesday morning speaking with a lead researcher for a national investigative report. By Tuesday afternoon, I was sitting in a lecture hall eating Goldfish crackers and worrying about a five-point participation quiz.
This is the Senior spring: the bizarre, uncomfortable limbo where you are simultaneously a corporate-ready adult and a student who needs participation points.
No matter which way you view it, it is difficult to say goodbye to the version of yourself you’ve been for four years. I can’t wrap my head around it when I really sit with the thoughts: I’m losing my psu.edu email, I can no longer say ” I go to Penn State,” I won’t be living downtown with my best friends, I won’t be just blocks away from my international friends, I’ll be leaving behind the path I’ve walked almost every single day for four years. I’ve always used the same entrance, the same staircase.
I am giving up the “student” label that has defined me since I was 5.
I’ve always been a good student, but does this even matter anymore? When the GPA stops being the metric of your success, you have to figure out who you are without the Dean’s List or the gold stars. We aren’t just finishing classes; we’re learning how to measure our worth in a world that doesn’t give out participation points.
Not everyone likes change. I can swear up and down that I love change and that the same routine gets mundane and dreadful. However, graduating from university is a big change for most, especially when you left your hometown to start a brand new life at school.
Now it’s time to leave the new village you’ve made, and actually be an adult… and actually get a job…
Graduation isn’t just a ceremony; it’s a self-inflicted eviction from the world you created. You aren’t just moving cities, you’re moving away from the version of yourself that knew exactly where she belonged.
We spend four years complaining about the same things: the trek from downtown to Smeal, the dreadful winters, El Jefe’s lines, 9 a.m. classes, the huge mobs of freshmen, partiers screaming outside at 4 a.m., banging signs. We swear we’re bored and ready for something new.
But then the cap and gown arrive, and suddenly that “mundane” routine feels like a luxury we aren’t ready to give up. I can already see myself six months from now going, “Dang, I would do just about anything to be at Penn State right now, I’d even walk that treacherous walk that cuts through Old Main.”
I’ll be thinking to myself, “Just one more football game, one more lecture, one more night of laughing until my ribs hurt so bad I have to leave the room.”
All of the people who came and went over the years, and I never thought our time would come. I always thought, “Well, I’m only a freshman,” or “I’m only a sophomore, that’s still an underclassman.” Then it was “Eh, 2 more years, plenty of time.” Now, finally, we are here, just two more weeks.
We’re all currently caught in the “adulting” masquerade—wearing the blazer while secretly hoping our parents can spot us some cash and explain how FICO works. The idea of choosing a health insurance plan or negotiating a lease feels like a prank.
We’ve lived in a world where our best friends are a hallway away. Soon, they’ll be a time zone away. We’re grieving the version of us that could just barge into a room without an invite.
I will miss you, Penn State. Thank you for the village, the voice and even the treacherous walks. I’m ready for the real world, but I’m leaving a piece of my heart in the 16801.